The Secret and the Man
by Ramshackle Bolt
Summary: Severus Snape has been spying on Harry for a very long time. When he notices something wrong happening at the Dursley residence, he takes action--by kidnapping Harry. Sixth Year. Harry and Snape slash.
1. The Mysterious Figure

Title: _The Secret and the Man_

Author: Stephanie (Ramshackle Bolt)

Rating: R

Pairing: Harry/Snape

Summary: Severus Snape has been spying on Harry for a very long time.  When he notices something wrong happening at the Dursley residence, he takes action—by kidnapping Harry.  Sixth Year.  HP/SS.

**Chapter One**

| The Mysterious Figure |

Harry was soaked with sweat.  He had been working all day in the Dursley's garden. His huge hand-me-down shirt was sticking to him everywhere, his underwear was drooping off his body, and his feet were sliding around, sweaty, in his socks.

_It must be the hottest day in years_, he thought, as he pulled Dudley's old trousers up for the third time.  He had lost the rope he used as a belt, and he was sure it would not go over well to ask the Dursley's to buy him anything.  The sun continued to beat down on him as he continued to shovel.  If it were not so hot out, Aunt Petunia would never have let him touch her perfect flowers.  

"Hmph," he grumbled.  "And they call me lazy and rotten."  

As difficult as the work was, it did not bother him as much as it normally would have.  It was a distraction from the one thing he did not wish to think about: Sirius.  And that he liked about this.  

He had been moping around the Dursley residence all summer, doing what housework Aunt Petunia nagged him about, finishing up his homework, and avoiding Dudley when he needed to.  None of that was very straining, but none of it was as much as a distraction.  Sometimes he would get into trouble for stopping in the middle of the chore he was doing and running up to his room.  What he couldn't tell Aunt Petunia was that he was suddenly being bombarded with memories of Sirius and his death and…well, he didn't want her seeing him cry.

Harry straightened up and stretched, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand as he gazed down Privet Drive.  All was quiet: the cars were in their usual spots, the same children played the same games on the same lawns, and Mrs. Figg occasionally spied out her window at him.  

Suddenly, he saw something.

A shadow, a shape, was standing near a tall hedge at the end of the street.  And then it moved out of sight.  

Harry did a double take.  Maybe it was just the heat.  Yes, that was it.

He went back to his gardening, but something kept tugging at his mind.  The rhythmic motion of the shovel in his hand was soothing; he kept striking the soil.

Strike, strike, strike—

He looked up again.  The shadow—the strange shape!—in the distance was back, and just as quickly as before it vanished without a trace.

Harry whipped up and began to walk toward it, and then he stopped.  He felt his pockets.  With a groan, he realized he had left his wand under the floorboard in his room.  And if that thing were something dangerous it might be too late if he were to run upstairs to fetch it.  So he did the only thing a reckless boy like himself could do—he fled the Dursley's house, going straight for the shadow.

He didn't know why he was chasing it, or what he would do once he got to it, but he had learned his lesson once.  He had already lost Sirius and come close to losing his friends, but he wouldn't allow anyone else to get hurt.  Not if he could help it.  If this thing were dangerous—he'd—he'd—

He arrived at the hedge at the end of the street, shaking, out of breath.

The mysterious figure was gone.

***

It was nighttime.  Harry had been on the sofa, looking out the window all evening.  The Dursleys were now eating supper, had even told him to come get his share or else he would starve for the night, but he didn't budge.  

The figure had not returned since he last saw it.  With a neighborhood full of Muggles, he couldn't bear risking that something as terrible as a Death Eater might be lurking around out there freely.  He twirled his wand in his hand.  Uncle Vernon had been turning redder and redder throughout dinner at the sight of it, but for some reason he hadn't told Harry to put it away.

The world was becoming darker outside, which of course made it more difficult for Harry to keep watch.  Grimly, he considered lighting a candle and going out onto the lawn to keep watch, but at last he raised himself from his spot and made his way upstairs.

Lying on his bed, he tried to ignore thoughts of Voldemort and especially of Sirius.  But they always came back, haunting him relentlessly.  If only there were some way he could forget—even temporarily—he would be so very relieved.  A familiar, burning, horrid sensation in his stomach welled up.  

Sirius was gone, and he was not ever coming back.  Harry's only chance at a real, live, official family was dead.

The burning made its way into his chest, then his throat.  He tried to swallow it, tried to think of anything else.  Gardening, sunshine, that figure.  It wasn't working!  Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore.  Please, anything, he just didn't want to cry again.

The burning began to hurt his eyes, and he felt wetness well up in them and finally spill onto his face.  Down past his ears, onto his bed the tears went.  They did not stop coming for a long while.  

***

Next day, Harry was outside again; however, the thing he saw the previous day was not.  Aunt Petunia had given him little work, save making Dudley's meals and cleaning the toilet, so whatever free time he had was spent on the lawn—this time with his wand in his pocket.  

It was evening, but he had seen no sign of anything dangerous.  Whether this was good or bad, he was unsure.  He kept fingering his wand in his back pocket, slipping it in and out idly, wishing he could practice the spells he planned to use in case something terrible was about to occur.

He wondered when the Order would come to get him as they had promised, or at least send word.  This was turning out to be another anxious summer alone.  He sighed.

When Uncle Vernon arrived home from work, the first thing he did when he climbed out of the car was pin Harry with a suspicious look.  "What's that in your pocket?"

Harry stopped touching his wand.  "Nothing."

The man's eyes narrowed.  "If that's your—your little wavey stick—"

"It's not, sir."  Harry gulped.  "It's a peppermint stick."

"A peppermint stick."

"Yes.  Mrs. Figg gave it to me."

Uncle Vernon still looked suspicious as he tapped his foot.  "Give it to me."

"W—what?"

"I don't want you rotting your teeth.  I certainly won't be paying for a dentist for you, now give it to me.  Dudley can have it."

"It's mine," Harry replied through gritted teeth.

That fat face was slowly getting pink.  "Now!"

Harry could do nothing about it.  He took out his wand and pointed it at Uncle Vernon.

"Ha!" the man exclaimed, whilst at the same time looking nervous.  "So you do have it!"

Harry began to look around wildly.  Mrs. Figg would probably berate him for displaying it outside as well.

"You know you're not to have that outdoors boy," Uncle Vernon was saying, appearing as though he were trying to keep his voice down but doing an awful job.  "Hand it over."

"_No," said Harry, in a tone that suggested his uncle was a mad man._

"_Harry Potter, if you don't give me that—that thing this instant, I promise you I'll—!"_

Harry gasped all of a sudden.  The shadow was back.  It was closer this time and, though he had seen only a little movement, he swore it was there.  He pointed his wand in its direction.

"Boy, what do you think you're_ doing_?" Uncle Vernon's face was turning as red as a cherry, but Harry hardly noticed.  He was walking swiftly toward the end of the street already.  "Get back here!"

And suddenly he wasn't walking anywhere.  Uncle Vernon had him by the scruff of the neck and was fighting Harry for his wand.

"Let go of me!  If you don't let me—"

"Drop that ruddy stick—drop it!"

Harry could hardly see anything but Uncle Vernon's enormous form, but as he looked over his shoulder he saw the shadow creeping closer to them.

"Uncle Vernon, don't you see it?  Let me go, or we'll be in tro—"

Harry's wrists were being squeezed in big, meaty hands.  He tried thrashing about, but his uncle was too big, too strong.

"Boy, I'll give you one, last chance.  Let go of the stick, or you'll have it!"

The figure was coming closer.  Harry could feel it, the magic coming from it, hot and strong and rampant. 

He wrestled violently against Uncle Vernon, and tried to think of a spell that would get the huge man off him so he could save them both before it was too late, and then—

"Ahhh!"

It stung.  The entire side of his face stung, and his neck ached too.  Harry realized Uncle Vernon had struck him with his fist and all the strength he could muster, and his scrawny head, under the huge weight that was his uncle, had snapped backward.  He was lucky his neck wasn't broken! 

He only had time to take one look at the still-approaching black figure, scrabble for his wand, and take a breath before he felt Uncle Vernon yanking him off the ground again.  His fist was reared back and his beady eyes were filled with anger; Harry shut his eyes in preparation for the second blow.

"Unhand him!"

Uncle Vernon froze.

Harry's eyes opened wide with the shock of what he thought he had heard.  He turned within Uncle Vernon's tight grip, wincing as the collar of his shirt choked him a bit, and gasped.

Professor Snape was standing in front of him.

Snape had been the mysterious figure.

**Posted ****October 25, 2003******


	2. The Boy Thief

**Chapter 2**

| The Boy-Thief |

Harry did not know whether Professor Snape or Uncle Vernon looked angrier.  His uncle's face was furiously hot, and Snape's nostrils flared out like a bull's.  The air was very thin and scarce.  He hardly dared to breathe.  

"Are you hard of hearing?" asked Snape, as he removed his wand from his cloak.  "I told you to unhand him."

Uncle Vernon squeaked in nervousness at seeing this.  "D—don't you dare order me about on m—my own property." 

"Drop—that—boy," said Snape in a low and impatient tone, "or else I will be forced to embark on more hostile means of persuasion."

Uncle Vernon took another look at Snape's wand, which was practically poking him in the nose, and released Harry.

He fell to the ground with a great thump.  Hearing this, Uncle Vernon looked at him, and then back at Snape—his long hair, his bat-like robes, his very presence.  Something seemed to click in Uncle Vernon's head.

"You!"  He pointed a plump finger at Harry.  "_You've invited this one, haven't you_?"

"What?" said Harry, rubbing the side of his face.  He could feel it swelling up already.

"This freak!  He's one of your friends, and you've invited him to cause trouble!"

"No, I haven't!  He is not my friend, and I would never invite—"

Snape plucked Harry up from the ground and, surely in a brief moment of insanity, brushed the grass and dirt off his clothes.  "Up to your room, get your things."

Harry looked at him.

Uncle Vernon looked at him.

Snape bristled.  "Potter, go!"

Slowly Harry turned around and walked the path to the house.  When he looked back, he saw that Snape was talking to Uncle Vernon with an outraged look on his face, though he could not hear the words.

Once in the house, Harry bound up the stairs, ignoring Aunt Petunia's inquiries ("Who is that awful man?  What's he doing on our lawn?"), and wondering what in the world was going on.  Perhaps Snape had been sent to fetch him for the Order.  But then why would he have been lurking around hedges for the past couple days when he could have simply burst through the doorway, or Harry's window, or down the chimney?

Harry sniggered, thinking of Snape in a Santa suit.

Whatever the reason Snape was here, he was sure it was worth listening to if it meant he would be taken from the Dursleys for the summer.

The floorboard under his bed came loose easily, and he emptied its contents: his Invisibility Cloak, _Quidditch__ through the Ages, and a couple Chocolate Frogs.  He clamped it all under one arm, opened his wardrobe, and snatched his Firebolt._

He had the sudden horrifying vision of Snape doing something cruel to his broomstick to sabotage Gryffindor's chances at the Cup this year; though, he knocked that out of his head immediately.  Snape wouldn't take the chance of ruining Harry's broomstick, only to have Harry buy a newer, faster model.  

He felt a pang of sadness at the thought of his Firebolt.  Sirius had bought it for him, Sirius had—

Harry shrugged it off, ignoring the sting in his eyes.  He couldn't keep doing this.  Sirius was gone, and that was that.

With a deep breath, he adjusted his things so that the cloak was fastened safely inside the book, the Chocolate Frogs were in his pocket, and the Firebolt was in his hand, and made his way downstairs.

Snape had Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia cornered on their sofa.  They seemed to be shouting, but no sound came from their mouths.  He looked up as Harry came stomping down, saying with a scowl, "Good, let's go," and flicking his wand toward Harry's relatives.

"Wait, I have other things in—"

But Snape was already flinging open the door.  "We're leaving, Potter."

"But, Professor!"

Snape continued out of the house and across the lawn.  

Harry was frustrated.  "Well, are you just going to leave them mute?"

"The charm will wear off," Snape called.  He looked very out of place in his great black robes, prowling along the sidewalk.  He was headed toward the hedges where he appeared at a brisk pace.

"Are we going to the Headquarters?" asked Harry, finally managing to catch up.

Snape looked at Harry sharply, down his beaky nose at him, and then sped his strides.  Harry was at a slow run to keep up with the man's long legs.  "No," Snape replied.  And that was all he said.

At the hedges, Snape pulled out a dirty-looking broom, one with splayed bristles and a splintered handle.  He held it at his side and waved his wand in the air.  Before Harry could get the question he was about to ask from his mouth, the Knight Bus came hurdling out of the sky, nearly knocking him over.

"Sir?"

"Get on, Potter."

It was dark, so Harry couldn't see the faces of the other passengers or the conductors.  He chose a bed near the end of the bus, where no others were resting.  After Snape had paid for them, he came slinking over to the bed next to Harry's and laid himself out, hardly acknowledging the boy.  It was almost enough to make him pout, being stolen away from his guardians and not told why.  He leaned forward.

"Professor?"

Snape was facing away from him.  "Mm?" he grunted.

"What about my other things?  My school things?"

Snape sighed very loudly.  "You'll have your things.  We just…needed to get out of there."

"Oh."

Harry turned away, looking out the window.  It was almost completely dark now; the lights of cities could be seen streaking by under the great purple bus.  It made him smile.  Wherever he was going, it was in the Wizarding world, that was for sure.  And that meant home. 

***

Harry was being shaken.

"Go away, Dudley, I'll clean your room later," he said, and smacked his cousin's fat hand off his shoulder.  Except it wasn't fat.

Harry opened his eyes.  It wasn't Dudley either.

Professsor Snape loomed over him, his long hair making a shadow across his face, his eyes glinting in the dim light.  Harry sat up quickly, nearly bashing Snape in the nose with his forehead.  He was on the Knight Bus, he noted as he looked around.  Now he remembered.

"Where are we?" he wondered.

"Hogwarts.  Let's go."

As the huge bus charged off into the distance, Harry and Snape stood at the front steps of Hogwarts.  He had never seen the castle from this angle this late at night.  Even though the students were gone, there were still pin points of light scattered across the structure, little illuminated windows high up.  It was beautiful, though he didn't think Professor Snape would appreciate him bringing such a thing up.  Instead, he glaced at Snape in question of what to do next.

Snape was already walking forward.  He wasn't going toward the tall front doors, however.

"Sir?"

"Hush, Potter!"  The man whirled around, holding up a long white finger.  A couple more inches and it would be pressing against Harry's lips.  Snape looked at him for a long moment.  The wheels were turning in his head.  He bit his lip with his crooked, yellow teeth so long that Harry wondered if he planned to chew it off until, finally, Snape gestured to Harry to come along.  

They ended up in an alcove far away from the front doors, where Snape whispered, "_Lumos_."  It was still very dark, but Harry could make out Snape's fingers feeling the stone of the castle, as though searching for a secret point, and then—

"Thank you, Lupin.  I knew it was still here…."

Harry found this extremely odd, and despite the fact that he was itching to ask Snape what he meant, he didn't.  Snape tapped his wand on a certain point on the castle wall; Harry was astounded to see it open up like a giant mouth to a section of the castle lit by torches.  It was damp here, drippy—a familiar sort of sound.  Also, it was quiet, much quieter than Harry could ever remember it being in all his time at Hogwarts.  Snape had led him inward, past the entrance, which closed behind them, down a long staircase, and around a couple corners before Harry decided to risk speech again.

"Are we…in the dungeons?"

"I marvel at your astuteness, boy."

Then, just as Harry was about to ask what he thought must have been his thousandth question, Snape stopped walking, and with a spell he flung open a door.

Once the torchlight kindled, Harry could see that he was in a small sitting room with bare stone floors and a kitchenette to the side.  It was a still room, and a very plain one, too: there was a small sofa, just right for a couple people; one wooden chair; an unused-looking fireplace; a desk that was swamped with papers, quills, and inkpots; and two doorways.  He didn't know where they led.

Snape was leaning against the hearth when Harry turned to him, his head on his folded arms and his shoulders slumped (or as slumped as a person's shoulders could go in such a position).  Despite that somber sight, his foot was tapping rapidly.  Maybe he had a song stuck in his head—Harry sometimes tapped a beat when that happened to him—but somehow, he doubted it.  The man's air seemed worried or angry or—a little scared?

Harry heard noises.  It wasn't the wind whistling, for there were no windows in the dungeons, nor was it mice that he suspected lived down here.  It was Snape.  He was talking to himself.

"What am I doing?" he whispered frantically, "Merlin, help me what have I done?"  

Harry was rooted to his spot.  He didn't know whether to put a hand on the man's shoulder or to go fetch Dumbledore.  Before he could react, Snape was pacing.  Pacing madly.  His shoes clicked across the stone, robes flailing about with every turn he made in the tiny space.  At last he stopped.

He sat in a creaking wooden chair near an empty fireplace.

Harry could hear nothing but his own breaths.

Snape's hair covered most of what was above his shoulders, but Harry was sure he held his head in his hands.  He leaned forward, straining to know whether Snape was still talking, perhaps whispering to himself.  In a quiet voice Snape said, "Good Lord, I've kidnapped Harry Potter."

For a second, Harry thought he had heard wrongly.  _Kidnapped?_  So the Order hadn't sent Snape to get him, and now the Order didn't know where he was.  But surely he was safe.  He was at Hogwarts!  That was where Dumbledore lived.  Harry could sneak out right now and have a cup of tea with Hagrid if he liked.  He hoped.

Snape's back lifted as he breathed.  A lock of hair was blown away form his face when he exhaled and came floating back down afterward.  For all the glumness the slouching man gave off, Harry thought he looked peaceful in his chambers, and wondered whether he was like this all the time or only when he kidnapped students.  Harry laughed softly.

Snape glanced up with a look on his face like he had forgotten Harry was there.  With a scowl, he heaved himself up and marched into one of the two rooms.  Harry assumed it was his bedroom because he emerged with a bundle of blankets, which he tossed at Harry.

"Sleep," he snapped.  "If you leave these rooms I will feed you to the giant squid."  And he slammed his bedroom door behind him.

Well.

He didn't suppose being squid meat was worth a midnight wander.

The sofa was too small, which meant for once he was thankful that he was too small as well.  He could only lay on it if he curled his feet under himself and tucked his head near his chest.  Harry felt like a kitten, snuggled on nasty old Snape's sofa, warm in nasty old Snape's blankets.  He closed his eyes for the second time that night.

**Posted **October 26, 2003********


	3. What Had Happened

**Chapter 3**

| What Had Happened |

It had been a freezing night.  No matter how small he made himself, Harry couldn't find comfort on Snape's sofa.  By morning, he felt as if his toes were simply about to fall off his feet. They had been so cold during the night that he had to keep his trainers on.

Snape didn't look any fresher than Harry felt when he came out of his room, though he was dressed and clean (or as far as clean went for Snape).  The torches ignited when he entered the sitting room where Harry slept, and Harry was relieved to be able to see again in the windowless space.  He had been sitting in the dark for what must have been an hour, wondering what he was supposed to be doing now that he was awake.  

Snape grimaced at the sight of him and moved into the kitchenette.  

"Humph," Harry said softly, a little insulted; it wasn't as though he didn't have messy hair all the time, he thought as he ran his fingers through it, so it shouldn't surprise Snape that Harry had awful bed-head.  But when Snape came back with a pack of ice, Harry realized it was not his hair Snape had reacted to.

"Here," he said, after hesitating to sit on the small sofa with Harry.  "Put that on your face."  Then he moved to his rickety chair.

Feeling his cheek with his hand first, Harry found that, well, it hurt.  He flinched.  It was swollen and hot under his fingers, and he pressed the icepack to it gently.  The change in temperature burned a little at first, but after a while the coolness became comforting.

Harry noticed that Snape was watching him, probably had been for the past few minutes.  The man's face was the same as he always remembered it: long, pale, unpleasant.  His nose was big and hooked, and not at all attractive.  His lips were thin and dry.  But, Harry thought as they regarded each other, those eyes held a lot of feeling.  They were fiery black things, passionate.  He couldn't tell whether in anger, or sadness, or disgust, or— 

Harry looked away.  He didn't know what was in Snape's eyes.  He was too sore to think about it now.

As if sensing Harry's discomfort, Snape began to speak, low and steady.  It was a much nicer speech than last night.  "Potter…I am unsure whether I have made a mistake in bringing you here."

Harry looked up.

"I have interfered with the Headmaster's protection of you, threatened your relatives with magic, and taken you unlawfully from your home," he said, not looking at Harry.  "I acted rashly in my will to protect you, and though protection it was, it was also irresponsible.  The situation was none of my business.  You…you have every right to go to the authorities."

It was a sight to see, Snape's eyebrows furrowed, self-loathing flickering across his face.  The thin lips puckered in disgrace.  Snape clearly wanted to say something else, but was stopping at his near-apology to Harry.

Harry rose from his pool of blankets, setting the icepack on the sofa.  "So I can go to Dumbledore now," he said hesitantly.

Snape nodded.  He looked like he was clenching his teeth.

"And you won't feed me to the giant squid?"

A snort came from Snape, though his expression remained grim.  "No."

So, slowly and looking back to see that Snape wasn't joking with him, he padded toward the doorway through which they had first come.

"Of course," came a murmur, and Harry stopped.  He should have known that Snape wouldn't let him have something so easily.  "Of course, there is the matter of your residence."

"Residence?"

"Where will you go once you tell the Headmaster of my actions?"

"I don't understand."

Snape looked at him for the first time in a couple minutes, motioning with his hand.  "Sit."

Harry reseated himself on his pile of blankets.

"Those terrible Muggles," Snape was saying, "surely you don't want to return to them."

"I don't want to, sir, but that's where I always stay during the holidays."

"I see."  He put a finger to his lips, speaking smoothly and carefully.  "Do they…always treat you that way?  Hit you, shout at you so?"

"Um, not really.  Mostly it's just Dudley who hits me." 

Snape raised a black eyebrow at the name.

"He's my cousin, a great ugly brute, who bullies people smaller than he is.  He's a real oaf, though, sir, so I can always handle him with fat jokes."  Harry sat up a little proudly.

"What of the adults?  Your Aunt and Uncle?"

It was cold in here still, apart from the icepack; he used his free hand to rub at his legs for warmth.  Snape's eyes remained on his.  Harry wanted to know where this was going.

"They don't mind.  I think they like that Dudley's enhancing his boxing skills on me."  

"I was referring to your Aunt's and Uncle's treatment of you.  You said before 'mostly' your cousin hits you.  What about his parents?  Do they hit you?"  

Harry sat back into the squishiness of the sofa, fingering the icepack.  "Well, I don't know.  Uncle Vernon only hits me every so often, if he's very angry or if I don't do my chores fast enough.  And Aunt Petunia's only smacked me with the frying pan a few times."

This did not please Snape as much as one would have thought.  Looking away, he murmured, "It is a pity…"

"It's a pity she only hit me a few times?"

"A pity she hit you at all, Potter, with such an object."

"Yeah, I guess.  Tell that to my head," Harry added, with a tiny curve to his lips.

"Your _head?" Snape pinned him with a glare, leaning forward, elbows on his knees._

"Well, of course.  How else could a frying pan hurt me?"  Harry knew that Snape had once been a spy for Dumbledore.  He didn't know how good a spy, so he couldn't say whether Snape was pretending to be as horrified as it appeared.  His eyes were very wide.

"I knew I was right—I—" Snape stood and pivoted around his chair, then the sofa, to the wall, and then back "—those blasted—"

"Don't start pacing again, Professor, it makes me dizzy."

Snape stopped.  And scowled.  "How long have they been doing this? "

"I don't know what you mean."  Harry shrugged.  "Forever—ever since I can remember, but it's no big d—"

"I _knew I was right when I started watching the boy," the man said to himself, beginning another walk around the room.  "Dumbledore," he growled, "I __told him the boy needed more suitable guardians than Muggles!"_

"_Sir—"_

But Snape paid him no mind.  His steps were wild and his mouth was snarling.

"Sir, tell me why you've taken me here.  Why not just, I don't know, threaten the Dursleys or something?"

He paused.  "Because you were in danger, and if I hadn't taken you this—" he pointed at Harry's face "—might be worse than it already is!"

_Why is he doing this?_ wondered Harry, whose mouth was practically gaping at the sight of the fury in Snape's eyes.  _I don't think he would just sit around if he thought I was in danger, but he shouldn't be so worked up about it—and over such a small thing like a smack on the head!_

"Fine," said Harry.  "I don't care why you took me, anymore.  Anyplace is better than the Dursleys'."

Snape's head snapped up.

"That sounded worse than I meant it.  They don't drink my blood, or sell my body, or grind my bones to make their bread."  He folded his arms over his chest.

Snape imitated him, but slipped his hands into his robes in the process as though searching for heat. He muttered, "I didn't know what sort of danger you could have been in, Potter.  Don't make me out to be the enemy."  

"But, sir, why are you overreacting so?  Uncle Vernon had hardly touched me before you started coming toward us."

Black eyes locked with his.

"And how long have you been, erm, looking after me in all?  You were there the other day, too."

Snape didn't reply.

"And _why were you watching me to begin with?  You were hardly just passing through."_

Snape shook his head and turned away from Harry.

"Tell me, please.  I want to know why."

"That—" Harry hardly noticed the index finger pointed at his face, for on Snape's face he swore his saw a little color rising "—is none of your concern!"

"Of course it is!"  Harry stood from the sofa again, causing Snape to back up as Harry moved toward him.  "You nearly scared me out of my wits, creeping around like that."

The man shrugged his shoulders helplessly, an odd action for someone who normally had students shaking in fear.

"Did Dumbledore tell you to do it?" asked Harry.

"No.  In fact, Dumbledore told me _not to do it."_

"Then _why?"  Harry was starting to worry that Snape had infuriated him so much that he was starting to whine.  To the best of his ability, he kept his voice steady.  "Tell me."_

"No," was the firm answer.  "Sit down."

Harry took deep breaths, soothing ones, noticing Snape did the same.  Snape's fists were clenching, too.  He was almost thinking Snape were going to hit him if he did not obey the order, but he had to risk it.  Snape had been acting to oddly for him not to.

"Tell me—or else I'll—or else—"

Harry was at loss for words.  He was furious, though, so he stepped closer to Snape's towering figure, knowing he looked a lot less intimidating than he wanted to.  But so what if he only came up to the top of Snape's chest?  So what if Snape was a Dark Arts expert, a former Death Eater, a cruel professor, and had a temper like a wild animal?  He had been spying on Harry, stalking him for only-God-knew-how-long, and Harry had a bloody right to be told why—

"—or else I'll—I'll—"

"Or else you'll what?" said Snape, an infuriating smirk plastered on his face.

And then something clicked in Harry's head. 

"Or else I _will go to the authorities.  But it won't be Dumbledore.  I'll go straight to the Aurors, or the Minister—a personal friend of mine—" Harry smiled, grimacing on the inside "—and then I'll go to the _Daily Prophet_.  They'll all eat up how Harry Potter's nasty Potions master, once a Death Eater, has been poking around outside his Muggle house."  Harry stood back and observed Snape's fallen expression.  "And you've kidnapped me on top of it.  Snatched me right out from the Dursleys', Dumbledore's, and the entire Order's noses.  Not good at all, sir.  Not at all."_

Snape could hardly move his mouth.  "You—wouldn't—you cretin."

"I would.  I promise."  Harry straightened up, planting his feet more firmly on the stone floor.  "Tell me."

Harry had to look straight up to stare Snape in the eye, but from this angle he had a good view of the subtle emotions passing over the man's face.  Rage, foremost, and fear, and nervousness, and confusion.  How would he react, feeling all these things?  Harry was frightened to find out.

Snape fell onto his chair, head in his hands.

Harry blinked.

"So you want to know, do you?" he said after a while.  His voice was muffled. 

"…Yes, I do."

"I cannot tell you."

Harry sighed.  Snape looked up.  

"Telling you would mean having to send you back to the Muggles, for there would be…consequences to your knowing the information."

"Like what?"

He shook his head wearily.  "It doesn't matter right now, Potter."

Harry looked around the room.  Nothing had changed since last night, and now they were right back where they started: Harry standing, confused; Snape, sitting in that chair, tired and frustrated with himself.

He perched himself on his pile of blankets on the sofa again.  His hands were on his lap, his feet neatly on the floor.  It seemed the right thing to do, to sit quietly and wait for Snape to take the next move. 

"Then there is only one thing to do," Snape said more to no one than to Harry.  He was calm now.

Snape was looking at him, deep into his eyes, unrelenting.  There was no emotion for Harry to decipher this time. 

"There are books on the shelf," he continued.  "There is bread in the pantry."  Snape slid off his chair and, to Harry's utter surprise, onto his knees, where he came to a kneeling position directly in front of Harry.  He picked up the icepack, which was now decidedly less icy, and pressed it to the large puffy spot on Harry's face.  It was a gentler action than Harry could have ever imagined coming from the man.

"Do not leave these rooms and do not answer the door if there is a knock.  No portraits are here, so not even Dumbledore will know of your presence."  Snape stood quickly, letting Harry's hand take over the ice, and then shrugging on his cloak that was thrown over a stand Harry hadn't noticed before. 

He stood in the doorway now, and when he looked over his shoulder Harry thought his pale profile looked nearly dashing.  "I'll return before nightfall—so just…stay out of mischief." 

He was gone before Harry could think to ask where he was going.

**Posted ****October 28, 2003******


	4. Living Situations

**Chapter 4**

| Living Situations |

Harry couldn't believe it.  Snape had left him alone in his personal rooms.  He could have done a number of horrible things to the man's belongings: toss his underwear around the front lawns, pour out all his potions, or dig around in his paperwork.  Somehow Harry thought better of it.  Snape would not have left him alone didn't trust him to behave.

He wandered into the kitchenette, where floors were stone as the rest of the chambers and the cabinetry was wooden, a dark-colored material that looked very old.  They felt sturdy and the hinges squeaked when he opened them.  Inside there was little more than a cobweb and a loaf of bread wrapped in paper.  Harry ripped off a chunk.  Standing to the tips of his toes, he saw there was a small jar of red jam.

After a few minutes, which he spent looking for a knife to spread his jam, Harry found himself walking around the chambers, munching.  There wasn't much to see.  A coat stand (that held a moldy vest and dark green cloak), a desk (on top of which none of the papers were students', so he found no point in rummaging), and a bookshelf were all that he was interested in.  

He had never heard of any of the books on the shelf, but he could tell most of them had to do with the Dark Arts.  Picking one up, he read the title aloud: "_The Art of Muggle Torture_."  Harry didn't suppose he wanted to read that one. 

"_Being a Dark Wizard in an Oppressive Society," he read, moving on to the next book.  "Strange.  I wonder how much Snape suffers from that…."_

He continued to drag his finger down the rows of books.  Some of them had dust, which left grey-brown prints on his skin, and some looked old enough to fall apart at the slightest touch.  For once he didn't need Hermione here to tell him they were fascinating.  Most of them were about interesting or horrifying things, but the language was so dull and complicated that he could understand very few of them.  At last, he came across a book entitled _Light of My Life_; it was a novel, not a reference book, about a witch who fell in love with a dragon, but they had to run away from civilized Wizarding society because everyone thought badly of them. 

Harry had never read a novel by a wizard, and was immediately entranced.  He was so entranced that he didn't notice he had curled up in Snape's wooden chair to read.

***

It was a long wait for Snape to return.  

Harry didn't notice a clock anywhere, and with no windows he had no clue as to just how long he had been alone.  Going by the groans of his stomach, he decided it was around suppertime.  There was more bread left, but he had already eaten half a loaf, and thought it would seem rude to eat all Snape's food.

He had been reading for hours, having nothing better to do.

It was when he was just getting to a really good part of the book that nature called, and after finding that the second door in Snape's chambers led to a storage closet full of potions ingredients, he had found himself confused as to where Snape went to use the bathroom.  It occurred to Harry to tinkle into the fireplace and then floo everything that came out to the middle of the ocean, but after a moment that sounded very silly.  Plus, he didn't see floo powder anywhere.

Then Harry realized that the bathroom must have been through Snape's room; he hesitated, turned the knob of Snape's bedroom door, and walked in.

He came back out alive, and resumed reading.

It had been difficult to find his way around Snape's bedroom to get to the bathroom, as the torches did not ignite when he entered, but eventually he had finished what he set out to do.

When Harry noticed Snape hovering over him, he realized he had fallen asleep.  The man looked a little peeved that Harry was in his chair, but said nothing of it.  He guided Harry to the sofa, taking the wooden chair for himself.  It took another few minutes of waking up before Harry saw his school trunk sitting nearby, along with a couple sandwiches and a glass of pumpkin juice.  

Harry looked at Snape.  Snape gestured to the food.

As Harry dove into his meal, Snape began to speak.  "I paid a visit to your relatives as you can see."

Harry glanced up, chewing and sipping at the same time.

"They were most unhappy to see me again," Snape said with a smirk.  "They began to shout so loudly that I could hardly hear myself say '_Obliviate_.'"

Harry choked on large mouthful.  "You erased my relatives' memories?"

"Of course," he said, like it was no big deal.  "Eventually someone would have found out you were gone, and the Ministry would have went in to investigate.  Your relatives knew my appearance, so I would have been too easy to track, especially since they knew you left with me willingly."

"…Oh."  Harry looked at the other sandwich, and then at Snape.

Snape nodded, looking almost amused that Harry had finished the first so fast. "I have already eaten."

Harry gave him a small smile, and before he bit into it he asked, "So what will the Dursleys tell the Ministry when they go to investigate now?"

"That a Muggle man with a gun stole you right off the lawn during your morning gardening, and it was all so tragic that they had forgotten to call the police."

Harry shook his head.  "The Dursleys wouldn't care about me that much."

"Apparently they do now."  Snape settled back more comfortably, his eyes always stuck on Harry no matter what he did.  Harry was beginning to find it unnerving.

"So what did you do next?"

"I searched out all your things and returned to Hogwarts."

Looking down, Harry realized he had the book he had been reading was clutched in his hand still.  He set it aside, then wrung his hands together, as he chewed the last bit of sandwich.  Snape looked as anxious as he felt. 

"Do you want me to stay, sir?" asked Harry.  "I…I don't think I want to go back to Sirius's house anytime soon."

Snape shrugged a little uncomfortably.  "It is up to you, Potter."

He didn't think he wanted to get Snape into trouble for trying to save him either.  The man was awful, but…not totally.

"What are my choices?" he wondered, wanting to be sure.

"You may stay here until the fall term begins, at which time I will…work something out.  You may return to your Muggles, in which case you would simply explain that the man who kidnapped you found you worthless and annoying, or some such thing…."

Harry stifled a snigger. "You already think that."

Snape acted as though he hadn't said anything. "Or you could go to Dumbledore.  Surely he would know what to do with you." 

"I can't go to one of my friends' houses?"

"It would seem that would be the same as the last option, don't you agree?"

Harry thought about it.  Yes, he did think that if he went to, say, the Burrow, word would get out to the Order that he had left the Dursleys' house, and then he would have to explain everything anyway.  

"All right, then," said Harry.

Snape looked startled.  "All right _what_, Potter?"

"I'd like to stay here.  If that's all right with you."

Things were still.  Snape only looked, and Harry only breathed, waiting.  He wondered if Snape had offered to let him stay only to enjoy turning him down.  But then, Harry didn't think he'd risk arrest for that.

Snape got to his feet and made toward his bedroom, saying over his shoulder, "Come along," and muttering a spell.  Harry realized what the spell was for when his trunk showed up at his side when they arrived in Snape's room.

It was dark like the rest of the chambers until Snape walked in, and then another set of torches lit themselves.  The largest thing in the room was a bed.  Just one.  A nightstand was there also, and a wardrobe, several shelves (that held an assortment of slimy things in jars, some still wiggling), and the bathroom door that Harry had used.  

"Have a shower.  Your scent is atrocious."  Snape had his arms crossed over his chest, and was standing next to the bed, looking down at him.  

Harry gathered his toiletries and pajamas from his trunk.  This time the torch in the bathroom came on when he entered.  Harry sighed.  He didn't know what Snape had done, and he wasn't in the mood to ask, but really the man could ask before he went around casting spells on Harry.  

When he was finished showering and had returned to the bedroom, Snape was already dressed in a gray nightshirt.  It was one like Harry had seen him in during forth year when he had almost been caught out of bed after curfew.  Harry blinked.  The one bed was now two beds.  They were proportioned perfectly to the old one, like Snape had just cut it down the middle with magic.  The beds were several feet apart and the nightstand was now between them.  

Harry sat on the one that Snape had not.

"This is inappropriate," Snape mumbled, as though it had just occurred to him.

Harry twiddled his thumbs in his lap, and swung his feet.  He was cold.  He wondered whether it was all right to get under the covers now.

"You will not leave my chambers, ever," Snape said.

"You've already told me that."

"And you will not touch my papers or my ingredients," he continued.  "Use anything else as you like.  I will not always be here, so you will have to keep yourself entertained."

Harry toed the floor.

"Sleep," he said abruptly.  "Nox."

The light vanished.  Harry heard Snape getting under his covers.  It was too dark.  He couldn't see his own hand in front of his face, he thought, but at least he had a very comfortable bed, unlike his at the Dursleys'.

Snape breathed quietly.  That was all Harry heard.  If he imagined hard enough, he could make believe Snape was someone else.  Sirius.  Harry smiled.  He was sleeping in a dark room, warm under the covers, with Sirius at his side.  If he had a nightmare Sirius would be there to tell him everything was okay.  And if it was too cold he could cuddle up to his godfather's strong body, and then everything really would be all right.  

He would get to do all those things he had never done with Sirius.  Those things that family does for one another.

Harry shook his head, blinking back tears.

No.  This was the first night of an entire summer with Snape.  Not Sirius.  He was worried out of his mind, and there would never be anyone here to hold him.  

**Posted **November 1, 2003********


	5. Cozy

**Chapter 5**

|Cozy |

Rooming with Snape was not as bad as Harry had originally thought it would be.  They stayed out of one another's way: Harry showered in the morning and Snape showered in the evening; Harry picked up all his belongings without having to be told and Snape generally kept his slimy things in jars out of the bedroom and in the storage closet.  There were sometimes awkward moments like he and Snape going to use the toilet at the same moment, or Harry seeing his professor undress for bed, but mostly it was casual living.

It was a quiet place, Snape's dungeons, when the creaks and groans of the old castle were not sounding.  There were creatures: Harry heard bats and mice, but never saw any, and he encountered his share of spiders even on the first day.  But that was all right.  He had become used to those during the days he lived in his cupboard.  

The morning after Harry moved in he woke up to an empty room, save himself.  He was happy that Snape had brought his things—not just his school things—in the trunk.  He was allowed to change his clothes for the first time in two days.

He found Snape working silently at his desk in the main room, a stack of papers and a couple vials at his side as he wrote fussily on a long roll of parchment.  Walking past, Harry took the liberty of assuming the stack of toast and plate of eggs at the little table in the kitchenette was for him, and he dug in most hungrily.  Snape spared him a glance and a snort.

Snape's long hair covered most of his face.  He probably wore it that way for that very reason.  Even staying in Snape's chambers, he hadn't been able to find out much about the man.  No pictures sat on the mantle or the walls.  No trinkets were on any shelves.  Even in the bedroom were the most ordinary of objects.

After a few minutes, Harry became restless and spoke.  "I've never seen you eat, Professor."

Snape lifted an eyebrow, but did not look up from his work.  

"Don't you?" Harry asked.

"Naturally."

Harry sighed.  Uncle Vernon didn't like to be bothered with Harry when he was doing paperwork (or ever, really).  He thought maybe Snape and he should chat over drinks sometime.  Harry snickered, imagining such an event.  

Snape looked up with a scowl and Harry ducked his head.  Did he expect Harry to be silent for the summer?

By the time Harry had finished breakfast, the room was not so quiet to his relief.  Snape was muttering to himself, reading the complicated words on the page, none of which Harry could fully make out.  It might have been in another language.  Whatever it was, Harry became bored of it quickly.  Snape appeared tranquil, however; his eyes moved across the page casually, despite the quickness of this mouth.  

Harry made himself comfortable on the sofa once more with the same book he had left in the room last night.  

"The dungeons are always so cold," he whispered to himself, gathering the blankets he had left behind also and cocooning his body tightly.  _Now I know why Snape always wears those heavy black robes.  He was comfortable now, though, with the thick blankets and Snape's voice in the background.  It was almost like a snug little cottage.  If only Snape would light the fireplace someday._

He began reading, but after a while he found himself doing this aloud, quietly as Snape.  "Margaret holds my hand and she is not afraid to touch my scales like the others.  She holds me firmly like she means to and inside I feel warmth which is not just the normal fire inside every dragon—" 

"Potter," Snape said from across the room.  Harry saw that he was not as tranquil as before.  "What is that trash you're reading?"

"A book, sir."  Harry held up the object, which was wrapped with a green and brown cover.  Snape leaned forward, squinting in the dim light.  Harry saw his lips moving with the syllables of the book's title.  _Light of My Life._

He sneered.  "And what would a fifteen year old boy want with that pitiable excuse for literature?"

"I don't know.  What would a grown man want with it?—I found it on your shelf."

Snape growled as he rose from behind his desk.  His footsteps clacked on the floor, becoming louder until he finally stood in front of Harry, who remained calm on the sofa, and wrenched the book from his hands.  "You lie," Snape spat.  He turned the book over in his hands, perhaps looking for something by which to identify it.

"I'm not lying.  It was right over there."  Harry pointed.  Snape paid him no mind.

He opened the front cover in the book, and then something changed in his eyes.  They darkened very slightly, a feat for someone with such black eyes, flitting to Harry and back to the book again, where Snape's finger's clenched and clasped and dug into the book.  Harry leaned back into the sofa when Snape suddenly pulled his wand from his robes; he thought the man would turn it to him, but he only pointed to the inside cover of the book, muttered something under his breath, and then snapped the book shut.

Harry was surprised that Snape made to move away, taking the book with him, so he threw the blankets off his legs and trotted after Snape.  He was already across the room.

"Professor, you said I could read what I wanted!"

Snape turned to him. "You have no use for this," he said, holding the book out of Harry's reach.

Harry grabbed his sturdy arm, tugging gently, as though to plead _no, mine, mine, mine_.  "I like it," he told Snape, whose face was screwed up in uneasiness.  Snape gazed down at his upturned face for several seconds, holding the same expression, and at last relented.

"No more reading aloud," he said, before thrusting the book back at Harry.

Snape left him to his own devices once more, but Harry found himself confused.  When he opened the book the front cover was blank—he had never checked if anything was written there before: an autograph, a date, a note?  He didn't dare ask Snape.  He just cursed his own lack of scrutiny.  

Snape was behind his desk again, staring at Harry in the way that made his stomach turn over.  Harry tried his best to ignore him.

Later, Harry was laying down, staring into the empty fireplace.  It was cold-looking.  As always.  He was surprised there were no icicles in it, but that was a silly thought.  Normally, he would be able to hear the wind from the outside swirling around in an empty fireplace.  He supposed they were so far down into the castle that that was impossible.  

He felt like a lump.  Just laying while Snape worked.

There was nothing to do in these chambers, aside from reading.  He had just finished the book, faster than he had ever finished one for pleasure.  It was lovely.  He was still clutching it to his chest, reliving all the best parts.  He couldn't wait to read it again, but for now his eyes were tired and all he could do was relax to the soothing sound of Snape's scratching quill and his quiet breath.

Harry closed his eyes.  He was hearing something, but he didn't know it was true.  It rung and vibrated in his ears.  He clutched the blankets tighter around him, listening harder.  It was true.  Snape was humming.

He couldn't make out a tune.  Snape wasn't very musical, yet it was comforting—the sharps, the flats, and the odd twangs here and there, the low rumble of the man's throat, so much deeper than Harry could ever imagine his own voice to be.  It reminded him of something.  Something good-sounding and good-smelling, warm and frosty at the same time, like Christmastime.  Yes, Christmastime.  

Snape summed up lots of warm things in those notes that Harry had never thought such a man could have inside him: pies, thick stew, presents, stockings, friends, family, all those warm things.  Harry remembered the happiness of last Christmas.  Sirius had walked around singing carols very loudly, and though this was not a carol Snape hummed, it was so similar.  How could it be so?  How could Snape make him so happy and so miserable at the same time?

Harry had only ever known the man to do the latter.

Harry did not acknowledge that Snape's sofa had a warm spot of water under his head, or that he was sniffling.  He wondered if Snape heard him but tried not to acknowledge that either.  He simply closed his eyes and got lost in the song, in Sirius' presence, filling him.  In Snape's horrible cold chambers.

It wasn't even dinnertime but he was ready for bed.  Ready to get away from here again and go back to his dreams.  He wished he could have a single day without remembering what it was like to have a family for just that short while.

**Posted ****November 16, 2003**


End file.
